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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26694031">The Only Place Worth Being</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Galaw/pseuds/Galaw'>Galaw</a>, <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/purpjools/pseuds/purpjools'>purpjools</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Human Hazbin Roommates AU [12]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Hazbin Hotel (Web Series)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Human, Art, Collaboration, Doctor Kink, Domestic Fluff, Erotic Photography, Human Alastor (Hazbin Hotel), Human Angel Dust (Hazbin Hotel), Human Husk (Hazbin Hotel), M/M, Nurse kink, Sickfic, discussion of sexuality</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 04:47:52</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,455</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26694031</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Galaw/pseuds/Galaw, https://archiveofourown.org/users/purpjools/pseuds/purpjools</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>In life, there exists a natural fluctuation to everything. A rhythmic ebb and flow. This applies to conversations, relationships, and <i>other</i> issues of a more mortal variety.</p>
<p>Turns out, no one is immune from illness, not even homicidal radio hosts.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Alastor/Angel Dust (Hazbin Hotel)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Human Hazbin Roommates AU [12]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1699558</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>48</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>330</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The Only Place Worth Being</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Galaw's twitter, a veritable cornucopia of RadioDust art: <a href="https://twitter.com/dreadfluent">@dreadfluent</a></p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The first inkling that something is off begins the moment Alastor slammed into the bookcase.</p>
<p>They were curled up on the couch, Alastor reading aloud to Angel, as they tended to on their nights off. He finished the book and lifted Angel’s legs from where they laid over his, ignoring the plaintive whine. He stood up, steadied himself, and lost steam halfway through, whereupon he careened into the bookcase, knocking over the works of Milton and Vonnegut.</p>
<p>The second occurs after they finished making love and Alastor’s temperature remained fever-hot.</p>
<p>Alastor spilled inside Angel, licking hot stripes up his throat. They succumbed to sleep from the exertion, only for Angel to wake later to a shockingly febrile body, temperature and otherwise, draped over his.</p>
<p>The third, well. At this point, it’s a slap in the face.</p>
<p>Alastor calls in sick to the station.</p>
<p>As Angel slices up the ginger and calculates the number of dates he’ll need for the tea, Husk vocalizes his disbelief.</p>
<p>“The fuck ya do to him, kid? Witchcraft? Fuck him to death? Near death? Look. Al doesn’t get sick. Ever. I’ve known him for fucking years and he’s never once sneezed in my direction.”</p>
<p>Angel glares but takes the high road. He eyes the boiling pot.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>

<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>
    
  </p>
</div><p>“This has gotta be a fluke. All this time, and it takes having a goddamn live-in boyfriend to do him in.”</p>
<p>Angel counts out the dates. He scoops up the ginger and the dried fruit and dumps them into the water. He hisses as droplets scald his fingers.</p>
<p>“Some Achille’s heel, you are, kid. Hell, if I would’ve known that giving dick on the regular would knock him outta commission, I would’ve gladly bent over myself, especially when the bastard kept interrupting during my show’s season finale.”</p>
<p>Angel slams his hands down on the countertop.</p>
<p>“Goddammit, Husk! I fuckin’ know you’re worried about him too, but blamin’ me ain’t gonna fix jack shit! I <em>know </em>it’s my fault! Fuckin’ leave it alone! Just…stop.”</p>
<p>His chest tightens. Something warm trickles down his cheek.</p>
<p>Just stop, he tells himself. Stop thinking.</p>
<p>Stop <em>crying</em>.</p>
<p>Husk clucks his tongue, looking away. Angel can make out the faint hint of a blush on his face. He stands his ground, refusing to budge. A long moment of silence passes, the gurgling of boiling water and the faraway trilling of birds the only sounds during that voiceless reign.</p>
<p>“Sorry.”</p>
<p>Angel gapes at Husk, jaw almost dislocating from the speed at which it drops.</p>
<p>“What,” he says, dumbly. He sticks a pinky finger in his ear, twisting. Either he’s gone crazy, or this is the goddamn twilight zone.</p>
<p>“Fuck off, kid. Ya heard me. Loud and clear.”</p>
<p>Husk whistles lowly. He smacks his forehead and runs his hand down his face.</p>
<p>“Look. He’s my fucking friend, whether I like it or not. I fucking hate seeing him like this. Al’s just supposed to be…infallible, ya know? God knows that every time me or Niff got sick, that bastard was there with his stupid chicken gumbo and voodoo shit. Me, I ain’t cut out for that babying bullshit, but I still wanna help. Somehow.”</p>
<p>He clenches his hand into a fist, then loosens it, staring into his palm wistfully.</p>
<p>“He’s my friend,” he repeats, quietly. Angel softens. The guilt weighing heavily on his chest lifts, a small but significant increment. He reaches out, instinctively.</p>
<p>“Husk, I-”</p>
<p>“It’s hardly a death sentence,” comes a suspiciously groggy voice from around the corner. “That’s a brazen exaggeration.”</p>
<p>Husk immediately stands to attention, bristling. His speedy recovery from refractory period is impressive, Angel thinks. Not as useful as Alastor’s, but it has its place.</p>
<p>He manages to get as far as the island. Alastor sinks to the floor, knocking his head back on the tile.</p>
<p>“Ow,” he says. Angel automatically moves. He hooks his hands under his boyfriend’s armpits, hoists his torso up, and pillows his head on his thighs.</p>
<p>“Babe. Ya fuckin’ idiot. How come ya ain’t in bed?”</p>
<p>Husk huffs an agreement. “Yeah, ya dumb fuck. Let the twink play nurse. I’m sure he’s got the outfit for it and everything.”</p>
<p>Angel glares at him. He <em>does</em>, but that’s not the point.</p>
<p>“Shut the fuck up, Husk. Go make yourself useful and pour him a cup.”</p>
<p>Husk grumbles, muttering unkind words under his breath but does as he’s told. He squats down, setting the mug on the floor.</p>
<p>“Chinese tea?”</p>
<p>“Korean,” Angel corrects. He holds the cup to Alastor’s lips. “One of my aunts is from Busan.”</p>
<p>Alastor dutifully drinks it down, sputtering once. When he regains his breath and some of his composure, he says, “I’d like that nurse uniform now.”</p>
<p>Angel refocuses his ire.</p>
<p>He launches into his usual spiel of Italian admonishment while Alastor takes it in stride. He touches two fingers to his lips and swings it to Angel’s, pressing them down on his mouth in a poor imitation of a kiss.</p>
<p>Angel frowns but swoops down anyway. He hears Husk groan in the background. Alastor parts his lips.</p>
<p>“<em>D’accord</em>,” he mumbles into Angel’s mouth.</p>
<hr/>
<p>Angel first notices the box when he stumbles over it.</p>
<p>Alastor’s study, the one converted from his old bedroom, is pristine the majority of the time. He keeps his affairs in meticulous order, organizing notes from each radio show chronologically and alphabetizing all the files on his unsanctioned activities in a locked cabinet. Even the firearms and knives aren’t exempt from order. They take up much of the closet space, under the boxes of Alastor’s voodoo doll collection. He stores the less important puppets in his closet and saves the space on his desk for his most utilized and prized ones.</p>
<p>The dolls displayed prominently on his desk are as follows: a well-loved one with dyed pink hair and freckles, a grouchy-looking thing with five o’clock whiskers, a cheery little darling sporting a colorful dress, a fastidiously dressed doll with an unnerving grin, and finally, what appears to be a placeholder for a pincushion, that may or may not suspiciously resemble someone Angel knows. With a distinctive scar bisecting an eye.</p>
<p>Materials, such as fabric and sewing needles, are scattered all over his desk. He seems to be in the process of sewing three more. One doll sports red circular felt for cheeks, another appears to be cycloptic, and the last one, in the beginning stages of creation, displays indeterminate features.</p>
<p>Save for the hearts in lieu of eyes.</p>
<p>Angel moves closer to inspect the last doll further when he hits something jutting out from beneath.</p>
<p>“Fuck,” he hisses as his foot makes contact. He bends down and reaches under the desk, careful not to hit his head on the frame. It’s the size and shape of a large binder, but thicker and closed tightly along the edges. He dusts it off, tilting it as he examines the outside. Nothing indicates anything untoward, so he shrugs and opens it.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>

<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>
    
  </p>
</div><p>He widens his eyes at the contents.</p>
<p>Pictures.</p>
<p>The recent ones, or what appears to be, are stacked at the top. Angel pauses, his hand hovering over the first one. It’s a picture of their house, their current rental, from the perspective of their street.</p>
<p>Angel is pretty sure as to who these pictures belong to, which is reason enough for his hesitation.</p>
<p>There’s a camera that resides in their closet, switching spots every so often, and Angel himself has no patience or eye for photography. He chews his lip as he ruminates on what to do. He makes the spontaneous decision on the exhale.</p>
<p>He flips the photo over. Alastor rests in their bed, none the wiser.</p>
<p>One by one, Angel goes through all of them.</p>
<hr/>
<p>Alastor doesn’t snore, but once in a blue moon and especially when he’s ill, he sniffles. Loudly. Fat Nuggets is privy to it, to his apparent porcine dismay. The pig snorts as he’s interrupted for the third time, nudging his snout up against Alastor’s cheek. He answers by grappling the pig and mimicking a gator’s death roll. Fat Nuggets squeals and burrows his snout affectionately into Alastor’s face. He grunts as Alastor hugs him, singing made-up lullabies featuring his name.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>

<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>
    
  </p>
</div><p>Angel watches this from their doorway, heart clenching at the sight. They’re getting their new pet soon, and Angel can’t wait, but right now he is, without doubt, a hundred percent content.</p>
<p>“Babe,” he says, chuckling, after padding over and sitting on their bed. He picks up Fat Nuggets and settles him in the corner of the mattress, buttressing him with pillows. “Is it the codeine?”</p>
<p>“Hmm?” Alastor snakes an arm around his middle. He presses his hot forehead to Angel’s stomach. “No, I don’t think so!”</p>
<p>He sings into Angel’s abdomen, the vibrato from his lips causing a similar one down south. Angel strokes the side of Alastor’s face, basking in the warmth. Apprehension claws at his stomach as he recalls his recent discovery. Torn between preserving the peace and learning more about his occasionally mysterious boyfriend, Angel reaches inside himself, finding his certitude, and asks, “Al? Did ya used to take photos? Like professional ones?”</p>
<p>Alastor stills. His lips stop right above Angel’s pubic bone.</p>
<p>Inwardly, Angel cringes, fretting as the silence drones on. He admonishes himself, chastising his audacity to question him during such a vulnerable time until Alastor answers frankly:</p>
<p>“Yes.”</p>
<p>Angel attempts to explain, but Alastor interrupts him.</p>
<p>“I assume this is about the binder?”</p>
<p>Angel nods and Alastor drapes his arm across his head. Angel automatically presses a palm to his temple. Clicking his tongue at the burst of heat, he picks up the infrared thermometer and points it at his forehead.</p>
<p>It reads: 100.3.</p>
<p>Angel sighs, worrying his lip. “I think the acetaminophen is workin’. Your fever’s down, but we should keep monitorin’ it. Just in case.”</p>
<p>Alastor makes a noise of agreement. He buries his face in Angel’s stomach again, which makes him jump, ticklish as he is.</p>
<p>“You’re a dab hand at this, has anyone ever told you?”</p>
<p>“Once or twice. Cherri gets sick every damn year, I swear. Ain’t like strippers get health insurance, either.”</p>
<p>“Mmm. I commiserate. Not the dancer part, mind, but illness. Rosie’s a godsend for that sort of thing…did you know she’s a licensed medical doctor? No bedside manner, though. What a shame.” He coughs, but it’s dry and occurs only once. “My mother used to fall ill all the time. Frail woman, if you could believe it, and no one really could. Shot at my father, once or twice. I take after him, health-wise. And otherwise, I suppose,” he says. “But I digress.”</p>
<p>Angel cards his fingers through Alastor’s hair. There’s a low rumbling that could be misconstrued as purring if Alastor has anything to say about it. Thankfully, he doesn’t and leaves Angel to enjoy it in relative peace.</p>
<p>“Yeah. Your mom’s the lady in the pictures, right? And your dad’s the tall blond guy?”</p>
<p>“Mmm. Just so.”</p>
<p>“Well, your mom is gorgeous. And your dad’s nothin’ to sneeze at, too. I can tell where ya got it from.” He winks, nudging him with an elbow. Alastor groans.</p>
<p>“Please don’t, dear. I’d rather not envision my parents in that manner.”</p>
<p>“Jus’ sayin’, Al. Your whole family can get it.”</p>
<p>“Yes, thank you, Angel. I’m envious of my parents right now, and for all the wrong reasons.”</p>
<p>He laughs, smothering him with his stomach. Angel leans down as best as he can to kiss the side of his head, loudly smacking with his lips. Alastor bats him away, chuckling. Angel grins.</p>
<p>“Nah, babe. You’re the only one for me. Any more of ya and I’d go batshit.”</p>
<p>“The feeling is mutual, dear.”</p>
<p>Alastor props his chin on Angel’s thigh. He smiles up at him, half-drugged and groggy from the medication and his fever. His hair is mussy from sleep, and portions of his face are crisscrossed from the folds in the sheets. His dimples enhance the guileless air surrounding him. Angel’s heart skips several beats. Sometimes, Angel doesn’t know how he’s gotten so lucky.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>

<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>
    
  </p>
</div><p>Alastor is oblivious to his emotional plight. He hums thoughtfully. “Did you want to bring the album? I can expound on it, if you’d like.”</p>
<p>Angel can’t think of a better way to spend the rest of the day.</p>
<hr/>
<p>“You know, these were supposed to be private.”</p>
<p>Angel abashedly averts his eyes. Alastor grins, pinching his cheeks.</p>
<p>“Only joking, dear. That’s fine. Nothing Husker and Niffty haven’t seen before.”</p>
<p>“Sheesh.” He smacks Alastor’s shoulder playfully. “Don’t scare me like that.”</p>
<p>Angel rests his chin on his shoulder as Alastor thumbs through the pictures, occasionally pausing to recount memories. Angel points to one.</p>
<p>“Oh my god, Al. Is that you?”</p>
<p>Alastor sighs. “Yes.”</p>
<p>“Ya look so fuckin’ cute,” Angel squeals. Fat Nuggets snorts in solidarity.</p>
<p>In it, a pint-sized Alastor sports a boys’ baseball uniform and glove, grinning at the camera with his left arm in a lime-green, signature-adorned cast. In the background, bald trees jut out from still water, and the setting is bright and sunny. Alastor flips the picture over and reads out loud.</p>
<p>“Alastor, age seven. First game of the season. My lil’ man finally hit a triple,” he recites. Angel screeches out a laugh.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>

<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>
    
  </p>
</div><p>“Congrats, Al. Ya hit a triple! I like how that was even in question.”</p>
<p>Alastor snorts. “Oh ye of little faith.”</p>
<p>Angel smirks, running a finger seductively down his arm. “I mean, ya made it to <em>fourth </em>in my book.”</p>
<p>“Please don’t sully my childhood any more than necessary.”</p>
<p>“I’ll try, but no promises.”</p>
<p>The next few pictures are more of the same: adolescent Alastor engaged in various outdoor activities, dimples indented prominently in his chubby cheeks. Fishing, shooting beer cans, nabbing and skinning gators. The typical Cajun and Creole childhood, he reassures when Angel questions him about the final mention. Angel doubts the claim. He’s slept with enough men from Louisiana to know that the last bit is an anomaly. Not everyone has the stomach or the fortitude for it.</p>
<p>He wisely keeps that to himself, though. Last thing he wants is to be responsible for a decrease in the state’s population count.</p>
<p>Another picture. But this time, Angel trails his index finger along it. Alastor rocks his head into Angel’s other palm.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>

<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>
    
  </p>
</div><p>“Mmm. Ah, that one. If I recall, Niffty said something along the lines of, ‘Your mother is so tan’ to which I replied, ‘Yes, she’s black.’ Well, <em>mixed</em>, to be exact.”</p>
<p>Angel gasps dramatically. Alastor sighs.</p>
<p>“Do you see it, now?” he asks, sarcasm dripping off each word.</p>
<p>“Well, ya do <em>tan </em>easily, darker than me and Husk. I might be able to see it, sure, now that I squint,” he jokes, before erupting into laughter. “No shit.”</p>
<p>“Bravo. The constant befuddlement of genetics.”</p>
<p>“Yeah,” Angel derides. “Get that much, growing up? Musta been hard. What’d Husk say?”</p>
<p>“Oh, nothing much beyond paleolithic grunting. You know him. Made a helluva fuss about the explicit ones, though.”</p>
<p>Angel does a double-take. He sputters. “<em>Explicit</em>? There’s explicit pictures? Where?”</p>
<p>Alastor furrows his brow. “In the compartment at the back. Dear, for someone as insatiably curious as you, you’re telling me that you haven’t scoured the entire thing?”</p>
<p>“How the fuck would I have kno-why do ya even <em>have </em>erotic pictures? Is that even your thing? And of who?”</p>
<p>Alastor lies back, temperature spiking if his groan is anything to go by.</p>
<p>“Now, darling, don’t take this the wrong way, as your jealousy streak is a mile wide”-Angel scoffs, “Like yours isn’t, babe”-“but yes, those are compositions of past partners.”</p>
<p>Angel runs his finger along the backside. He trips over a hidden latch and clicks it open. Images in black and white stare out at him. He tries not to hold his breath as he flips through them. Both he and Alastor ignore the trembling of his fingers.</p>
<p>There are swathes of exposed skin, with ropes and blindfolds for days. Men, women, non-binary, and dual genders grace the prints. Granted, the pictures are no more than a handful or so, but the variations run the gamut. None of the people show up more than once, Angel notes.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>

<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>
    
  </p>
</div><p>They’re both quiet for a pregnant moment.</p>
<p>“What do you think,” Alastor hesitantly asks just as Angel says, “These are beautiful.”</p>
<p>The delivery comes out flat and listless, but it’s honest. Angel truly thinks they’re works of art. He looks to Alastor for explanation and is surprised to see such a melancholic expression written on his face. He questions him, then settles back to listen.</p>
<p>Alastor dances his fingers atop the sheets. “For the longest time, I tried to find my footing. I guess you can say that I sowed my wild oats just to prove that there wasn’t anything wrong with me.” He laughs, a hollow sound. “Come to find out, I can only feel sexual attraction to people I fall-I care about. I can go through the motions, sure, but it’s not the same. The difference is uncanny.”</p>
<p>Angel places his hand on his arm. He kneads the tense muscles into something more pliable. Angel was never good at holding his heart back. It soars out to Alastor.</p>
<p>“Al, that ain’t weird. You’re not the only one who feels that way. Trust me. Ya ain’t alone.”</p>
<p>Alastor sends him a subdued smile. Angel floats as he reaches out and slips his hand over his. He threads his fingers with Angel’s.</p>
<p>“No, I don’t suppose I am.”</p>
<p>Alastor allows him this. In the beginning, these glimpses were few and far between. Angel knows that Alastor guards himself so protectively due to his past and his current predilections towards a reckless lifestyle. He can’t afford to slip up. A single crack in his armor is enough for a blade to slip through.</p>
<p>It’s either that or the codeine, but Angel prefers to believe it’s the former.</p>
<p>In any case, his earnest heart does.</p>
<p>Alastor turns his head, facing him. He searches Angel’s face for a beat. Satisfied, he closes the gap.</p>
<p>When they pull away, breathless, he says, “I guess it all worked out, in the end.”</p>
<p>Angel laughs. “Romantic. Is that the fever talkin’?”</p>
<p>“Probably.”</p>
<p>Something still bothers him, though. Angel chews the inside of his cheek, averting his eyes from Alastor’s imploring stare. Alastor tilts his head.</p>
<p>“What’s the matter, darling?”</p>
<p>It tumbles past his lips before he can even compose and make sense of his feelings.</p>
<p>“Why ain’t ya ever take pictures of <em>me</em>?”</p>
<p>Another pause. This one lasts longer. Alastor closes his eyes. Angel thinks that he’s fallen asleep until he says, “Desk. Second drawer. Key is under the rug.”</p>
<p>Angel scrambles to his feet.</p>
<hr/>
<p>They’re all pictures of him.</p>
<p>Even before they began their torrid affair.</p>
<p>Most are of him sleeping, which. Okay. The rest seem to have been taken while he was distracted and unaware. His likeness is captured artfully, and he admires the compositions. He’s well acquainted with the subject matter, after all. And the photographer. In fact, all of these appear to be captured by an adoring eye.</p>
<p>This, however, doesn’t stop him from being a smartass.</p>
<p>“This is some stalker shit,” Angel says.</p>
<p>“Yes,” Alastor agrees.</p>
<p>“Hmm,” he contemplates, flipping through them. He shrugs. “Meh. I like them. Creepy, but who I am to judge someone’s kink.”</p>
<p>He deftly dodges the pillow.</p>
<p>“That is <em>not </em>my kink, you boor.”</p>
<p>“Sure, Al. Whatever tickles your pickle.”</p>
<p>“No one, barring you, is tickling anything of mine.”</p>
<p>Angel sniggers. “Whatevah ya say, babe.”</p>
<p>Alastor groans, leaning back on the remaining pillows for the support he is not receiving.</p>
<p>“I could end you, you know.”</p>
<p>“With what? Your dick?”</p>
<p>“It’s worth a shot.”</p>
<p>They share a secret smile. Angel shuffles through the pictures once more. The one he lingers on is the one where he’s in repose, features almost transcendent in serenity. His dark lashes leave charcoal shadows on his cheeks; the twilit room, a blur, behind him. It’s not the subject, or the intrusive way that it was taken that strikes a chord in him.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>

<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>
    
  </p>
</div><p>It’s the naked intimacy of it all.</p>
<p>Alastor nervously launches into a spiel explaining the technicalities of the photo, prattling on about how sufficiently lowered aperture affects the background while maintaining crispness of the subject when Angel efficiently shuts him up.</p>
<p>“I love you, ya know that?” he asks, rhetorical.</p>
<p>“Mutual,” Alastor mumbles on his skin. Angel rolls his eyes but sets the binder gingerly to the side. He wishes he had more than two hands to hold both Alastor and the picture, and tells him so. Alastor latches on to him instead, tangling Angel’s spidery limbs with his.</p>
<p>“Like that one, do you?”</p>
<p>Angel tilts it in his hand. “Yep. Think I’ll keep it.”</p>
<p>“Keep <em>you</em>,” Alastor retorts, still a bit high from the cold medicine.</p>
<p>“Forever,” he declares. He flicks his gaze up to Angel’s reddening face. “Worth a shot,” he repeats. “More than the <em>world</em>.”</p>
<p>Angel wraps his arms around him, trying his hardest not to cry.</p>
<p>“Dummy,” he murmurs into his hair. Alastor insistently presses up against him. Before they could proceed with anything sinful, an idea bursts into Angel’s head. He leaps up. Alastor claws at the empty space, whining at the loss.</p>
<p>“I’m gonna get ya more water, babe. And some medicine, just in case.” He winks.</p>
<p>“Oh, and speakin’ of shots, just call me ‘Nurse’.”</p>
<p>Alastor immediately perks up.</p>
<hr/>
<p>“What the fuck!”</p>
<p>The shriek jostles Alastor out of his pleasant headspace. Angel shrugs and continues bouncing on his lap.</p>
<p>“At least put a goddamn sock on the door or something!”</p>
<p>“Ever heard of knocking? Novel idea, that,” Alastor drawls from underneath.</p>
<p>“Fuck you both. I’m leaving the soup and meds on the table. Nice outfit, by the way.”</p>
<p>Angel preens. “Thanks, Husk. Waitin’ on Al to give me my injection.”</p>
<p>“Ain’t it the other way around?”</p>
<p>“Husker. Leave. Now.”</p>
<p>“What? Performance anxiety? Happens to the best of us, pal.”</p>
<p>Alastor reaches blindly for a blunt object to strike true at his friend’s face, but his fever-addled and lust-filled brain moves slower than usual. Husk, with uncommonly good sense and the wherewithal not to press his luck further, seems to get the hint and slips from the room.</p>
<p>Alastor glares at Angel, who smiles sweetly down at him.</p>
<p>“Was that necessary?”</p>
<p>His tight skirt hitches up around his freckled thighs as he rides him, and all rational thought flees Alastor’s already sparse mind.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>

<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>
    
  </p>
</div><p>“Nope,” he trills, adjusting his adorable nursing cap. “Just messin’ with ya, babe. Gotta keep my patients in line.” He winks again.</p>
<p>His victory lasts a good second before he’s flipped over. Alastor grows harder at the shocked expression on his face. He pins Angel’s arms down as he fucks into him, illness be damned.</p>
<p>“<em>Patient</em>,” he growls, emphasizing the singular. He pistons faster, coaxing the sweetest moans from his lover’s lips.</p>
<p>Angel eventually gets his injection.</p>
<hr/>
<p>The night settles around them, at once both gossamer and obscure. Angel can still make out the details in Alastor’s face, but every feature is shrouded in an additional layer of pall. He’s reminded of the blackout they witnessed a month ago, when Alastor lit all the candles and made love to him under the flickering, saturnine night.</p>
<p>Alastor’s head rocks into his palm, temperature markedly better than it was three hours ago. He snuffles and clings to Angel, using his body as a shield.</p>
<p>Against the world, against himself. Who knows, at this point.</p>
<p>“Where’s our pig,” he asks, swiping his thumb along Angel’s ribs.</p>
<p>“With Niffty as she murders Husk in one versus one.”</p>
<p>“Ah.” Alastor curls his body around him, shaping it to fit and fill all the dimensions, and then some. Angel gasps when Alastor enters him again, but rocks into it as time passes. He reaches back and tugs Alastor’s face towards him.</p>
<p>“It’s okay to be vulnerable, ya know,” he grunts in between the slow thrusts.</p>
<p>Alastor doesn’t quite agree, but he still extends his hand. He holds Angel’s, twining their fingers, clammy and fever-hot, in his, regardless.</p>
<p>“Funny thing, that. Husker said something similar a while ago, but it was about happiness or some such drivel.”</p>
<p>Angel turns his face towards him. They share a soft kiss over his shoulder.</p>
<p>“Are ya happy, now,” he breathes, already knowing the answer.</p>
<p>“Wildest dreams,” Alastor responds, just as predicted.</p>
<hr/>
<p>“So…my fever broke. That time, last week.”</p>
<p>Angel sniffles under a mass of blankets. He emits a noise that sounds suspiciously like a groan, and yet not unlike a yowling cat during the midst of mating season. Alastor inches forward, wary of what lies underfoot.</p>
<p>“Dear? I have some soup, if you’d like,” he says to the blanket fort.</p>
<p>A sneeze. “Fuck you, Al. I can’t believe ya got me sick.”</p>
<p>Alastor huffs, sitting on the edge of the bed. His hand ducks under the comforter until it reaches soft hair. He strokes it, humming under this breath.</p>
<p>“Technically,” he starts, but thinks wiser of it. He regroups and redirects before a spidery paw swats out at him. “Sweetheart, I brought you some tea.”</p>
<p>A muffled grunt is his answer. Alastor sighs, carding fingers through his hair. He leans closer, but not foolishly near, to spring the enticement.</p>
<p>“In any case, I borrowed Rosie’s stethoscope.”</p>
<p>Angel’s head pops out from the mass. Alastor is reminded of the mole arcade game but sagely refrains from saying so. He brandishes the stethoscope and whips it around his neck. The blankets wiggle as Angel laughs. His eyes widen as they soak in the rest of Alastor’s ensemble.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>

<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>
    
  </p>
</div><p>“Is that a white coat? Are ya wearin’ scrubs? Oh my god, ya really went for it, huh? <em>Baby</em>. I fuckin’ love ya.” He wriggles out from under the duvet. “What did Rosie say when ya asked her?”</p>
<p>Alastor pushes his glasses up.</p>
<p>“In so many words, she labeled me a pervert.”</p>
<p>“I mean, that ain’t wrong, babe.”</p>
<p>He sighs. “I’ve since embraced the title.”</p>
<p>“Right. Wear it with pride and shit.”</p>
<p>“Quite. Now would you let me take care of you?”</p>
<p>“Why, babe? That your kink?”</p>
<p>“As a matter of fact, yes. Yes, it is.” He peppers kisses down Angel’s chest. “Now lie back, sweetheart. And let me take care of you, this time.”</p>
<p>Angel smiles and does just that.</p>
<p>Doctor’s orders.</p>
<hr/>
<p>Husk’s caterwauling quakes the house.</p>
<p>“Sock!”</p>
<p>Muffled curses.</p>
<p>“Doorknob!”</p>
<p>Muted scrambling.</p>
<p>“How is that so <em>fucking </em>hard for you <em>sicko fuckers</em> to comprehend!”</p>
<p>Charlie and Vaggie stand in the foyer, clutching a tray of food and a tea kettle.</p>
<p>Charlie turns to her girlfriend.</p>
<p>“Maybe we should come back later.”</p>
<p>Vaggie sighs.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>1. Title is from "Cold Cold Man" by Saint Motel.</p>
<p>2. D'accord: I agree; okay in French</p></blockquote></div></div>
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